Visitation
by in vegas lights
Summary: While House is in Mayfield, he’s visited by those who know him. Will contain House/Wilson friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Chase/Cameron, Foreman/Thirteen. Post-season 5.
1. Part One: House

**Title:** Visitation

**Pairing:** House/Wilson friendship, possible pre-slash if you're looking for it. House/Cuddy friendship. Chase/Cameron. Foreman/Thirteen.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** Spoilers for seasons 4 & 5, more specifically for the season 5 finale.

**Summary:** While House is in the hospital, he's visited by those who know him. The first part focuses solely on House and each chapter after that focuses on him and another specific character(s) from the show. The emphasis is on House & Wilson in particular.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never was, never will be. If I did own _House_, those college loans would finally get paid off.

**A/N:** Compared to the one-shots I've posted so far, this fic is a bit different from my normal style of writing. If aspects of the fic seem disjointed or if the flow seems choppy, it's meant to be that way; a sort of stream of consciousness. Everything is from House's point of view and though it's not just his thoughts, the story is meant to have this pace to it and for House to fluctuate in personality. The whole story will be this way.

I came up with this idea right after the season finale. I don't envision House's hospital stay going smoothly nor do I believe he's going to act like he's in shock the entire time, as he did at the end of the finale. This is how _I_ see House handling his mental breakdown and how those around him will handle it. Please leave comments; I'd like to know your opinions.

* * *

**Part One - House**

For the first few weeks, no one came. But that was more because they weren't allowed to visit, not because they didn't want to.

At least that's how House justified it in his own head. Then again, his mind was betraying him at the moment, so in all actuality, anything was possible. The time since he had entered Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital moved in both slow motion and fast forward. Most of what had happened so far was a colorless blur, filled with doctors and nurses and pills and _Amber_ and _Kutner_.

The most vivid time was those several hours after House first arrived at the hospital, when the door closed behind him and he could no longer see Wilson. Certain scenes flashed before him in still frame, the ones that said "the life you knew before no longer exists."

His doctor (Connor) and the orderlies (he couldn't be bothered to remember their names) leading him to the check-in desk, asking for him to fill out a form and sign his name.

Listing off his symptoms in a monotone voice while the doctor made marks on a clipboard, with a "hmm" here and an "ahh" there. (Fuck you.)

Being led to his room down a whitewashed hallway, where everything, including himself, was checked over thoroughly. Something about trust issues and checking for "illegal substances." Go on, check, he hadn't taken a Vicodin in over six hours. Or was it more?

Being told that he was allowed no visitors until after the first month. The first month was the most important or something like that. Needed to make sure he was on the path to "getting himself clean."

House remembered lying down on the cot-like bed, staring at the ceiling with the crack running through it and listening to Amber hum and Kutner shuffle around, touching everything.

Bed, check; chair, check; ugly wallpaper, check.

They wouldn't go away. They watched while he experienced everything.

"Opioid addiction" is what the doctors here called it, the reason why he was slowly losing his mind.

_Well no shit_, House could have told them that the minute he walked in the door. It had been the only option left. It was also the option he thought he'd fixed.

"You need to detox from the Vicodin, during which time I'm going to prescribe Methadone to overcome the withdrawal," Doctor Connor droned during their first meeting. "After that, I'm going to prescribe a much stricter regiment for Methadone, which will replace the Vicodin as your primary pain medication. Hopefully, with these measures, certain side effects will disappear."

Wonderful. Another controlling narcotic drug. He hated doctors.

"If the psychosis continues, I'll consider prescribing you Thorazine, an anti-psychotic."

_If the psychosis continues._ God, House hoped _that_ was a hallucination.

"Since you had a severe head injury last year, we're going to have to monitor closely the use of that drug if it becomes necessary."

Head injury equals the bus ride from hell. Also known as, the night that caused Amber's death and when Wilson began to hate him. Also known as, the most likely point of origin of his mind's descent into madness.

If that was madness, this was hell.

The Methadone was successful in blocking a lot of the normal full-blown withdrawal symptoms; shaking, sweating, chills, involuntary tears, the need to puke every few minutes. Still, he found himself craving Vicodin and the relief it would give to his leg. Though he knew Methadone was just as effective in blocking the pain, he still felt like he was in agony at times. He knew it was all in his head though; that's what made it worse.

Pain, lots of it, would hit him at inopportune times. The withdrawal from alcohol wasn't helping either. House found himself shaking involuntarily and clutching his head, all while curled up in tight ball on top of the covers of his bed.

Amber sat by his head. "Do you think this will make us go away?"

"There's more you have to come to terms with before we leave." Kutner, sounding oh so practical.

"Fuck. Off." He couldn't get much more to pass his lips. "Detox will make you go away."

"You _thought_ detox would make us go away," Amber corrected. "But that was all made up in your delusion. _This_ is fact."

House didn't respond. Instead he shut his eyes and cursed under his breath.

The blur of detox was only interrupted when the doctor would come into his room and check on him, or when the orderly brought more of his pills.

It lasted a week altogether.

The combination of two different types of detox plus the addition of his body adjusting to a new type of pain medication meant House felt like he was living in a fog. When that fog finally lifted and he was able to focus on something else, all the while ignoring the continued presences of Amber and Kutner, it felt like a year had gone by.

Reality was the clock on the wall ticking past the number two.

House could finally notice the nondescript room he was currently occupying, with its off white ceiling, wallpapered walls, and the plain brown furniture. There was only one window, not surprisingly sealed shut with no way to unlock it.

"This place sucks," Kutner said, the most amount of emotion filling his voice since he'd appeared.

House couldn't agree more since it was actually him thinking that comment in the first place.

He hated it here. He _had_ to be here; he _wanted_ to be here. He knew it was necessary, but he still hated it. He'd never been one meant for rehab and he knew, like Amber knew; he'd eventually find some way to get out. But not yet, even though he wanted to break out through the walls like Edmond Dantes in _The Count of Monte Cristo_.

Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital was colored in grays and whites, dreary at one moment and blinding in the next. The staff felt devoid of any type of humor and seemed just as lifeless as the building they resided in. The outside world seemed to no longer exist and the place felt like a prison. He wished they would give him his cane back because he'd love to whack an orderly over the head, which was precisely _why_ his cane was gone. Apparently some incident had happened years ago…

House _really_ hated.

It felt like _The Twilight Zone_ and any moment House expected the theme song to start blaring from the speakers that dotted the hallways and rooms.

For the first couple of days, besides wallowing in detox, he'd been numb. He was still in shock and trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. The idea that he was in a psychiatric hospital hadn't really sunk in and even at the times he had acknowledged it, the thought had been accompanied with knowing he _had_ to be here.

Amber and Kutner shadowing him constantly kind of hit that fact home.

House now knew what having imaginary friends were like. Too bad they talked back.

But once that disconnected feeling washed away, House found he was increasingly irritated and bad tempered. Giving up his control and asking for help from complete strangers went against everything House was used to about himself. And he was still wrestling with that in his mind, along with every other problem going on in his mind.

He had to find _some _way to pass the time so he tried to find some semblance of humor in everything he saw. Feeling like he had been dropped into a badly written drama movie helped with that. Or maybe _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. Comparing his life to a classic movie wasn't quite as depressing.

He just didn't want a Jack Nicholson pulled on him.

And he really needed to stop comparing his life to the movies and television.

He needed to get through this somehow though. And being an annoying pain in the ass seemed the best way.

Besides, it made the staff hate him. Maybe that would get them to push his treatment faster. Sorry, _addiction therapy and counseling._

"As part of your treatment, I'm having you attend both one-on-one and group sessions with one of our psychiatrists, Doctor Gina Ryant. Since you have a drug _and_ alcohol addiction, your counseling sessions will include both of these."

The trouble was, being a jerk meant his therapist was trying harder than ever to get him to admit his issues and, ugh, _change_ him. Like he already didn't know something had to change, something had to give.

Preferably the people in his head leaving.

Kutner never said much, he mainly sat and cast sorrowful dark eyes at House. Interesting; while he was alive he never seemed to be able to shut up.

Guess suicide was a bit of a buzz kill.

House wished he would speak though. Anything was better than Amber's constant chatter. At least Kutner had been funny.

Amber would sit near him and talk and talk and talk. She'd swing her blonde her and stare at him with her ice blue eyes, smirking and laughing.

_I'm real. I'm real. I'm real._

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

It was an endless cycle. House wanted off.

The doctor had said the hallucinations wouldn't just vanish though; "these things take time." That was one phrase House didn't want to here. Detox was bad enough as it was, he at least could get the perk of his delusions leaving with all the Vicodin.

He hadn't taken a Vicodin since he had realized his mind was working against him. That moment in Cuddy's office, that was the moment he knew he needed help. That was when the Vicodin became his enemy; a greater curse than a blessing.

The Methadone worked just fine. He could walk (limp), he could function; he was fine. His therapist called it "the adjustment phase." He hated psychiatrists.

His most recent session, a one-on-one that consisted of him sitting on a comfortable deep maroon colored couch while his therapist sat across from him in a matching armchair, only cemented his loathing.

"You've been here a full month now, which means you're allowed visitors," Doctor Ryant said, tapping her pen on the top of her clipboard.

"Astute observation," House commented dryly, flexing his fingers on the couch cushions. "Come up with that all on your own?"

She only smiled at him in that annoying way of hers. So far, none of his comments had even made her flinch; guess he had to give her some amount of grudging admiration for having a spine.

"I'm only meaning to point out that people who care about you will now be stopping by to see how you are. A vital part of your treatment is being able to communicate effectively with your support system. Any issues need to be worked out with them specifically; I can only take you so far."

"If you can only take me so far, what's the point of these sessions?" House asked. "I think I'll just go now…"

House stood up as quickly as his bad leg allowed him and grabbed his cane from where it was leaning against the side table.

"Greg," she said when he reached the door, "you came here for a reason."

"I know," he admitted quietly. "I'm not checking out."

Doctor Ryant paused before she asked her final question, the one still ringing in House's ears hours later.

"Who is it you want to see the most?"

Now he was back in his room, one of the orderlies having led him back, making sure to retrieve his cane from him once again. They only allowed him to have it to get from one place to another.

"Do you honestly think anyone is going to come visit you? They think you're _craaazy_." Amber sing-songed the last word.

"They'll come," he whispered. "Wilson promised."

Amber laughed and Kutner smiled sadly.

"Your faith in him is astonishing," she said. "After everything, you still think he cares that much? Maybe you're nothing but a burden to him."

"To everyone," Kutner interjected.

House shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around his torso, hunching over on the bed. Block out their faces, the walls closing in on him. Block out his mind.

No, he couldn't block that out.

They were right. No one cared.

He was alone. It was exactly what he deserved.

* * *

_End Part One._


	2. Part Two: Wilson

**A/N:** Part three to this story will take a little longer for me to post because it is not finished yet. I'm hoping to have it done sometime around next weekend, give or take a few days. Thank you for the comments to part one. I really appreciated them. Enjoy part two.

**Warning:** As a warning for this part, I want to make it clear that certain parts to this may not seem too kind to Wilson. I do **not**, in any way, hate Wilson. This is **not** a Wilson hate fic. I received some interesting remarks on my LJ account concerning this part so I'm simply trying to make this clear. The point of this story is to deal with House's issues concerning his life and the people involved in his life. As such, I feel many issues between House and Wilson were never resolved, nor will they probably ever be explained/resolved in canon. This is my way to address these issues and try and correct them. This fic is a progressive fic where the characters will address their problems and work on solving them. **PLEASE**, do not comment to me and say I hate Wilson or I'm being OOC about this. To me, this is not OOC because House is going to be different in terms of characterization at times now that he has entered a psychiatric hospital. I know not everyone will agree with my opinions or my views, and I respect that in every way. Please respect my view and don't leave comments addressing what I already know. I'm sorry if this seems harsh in any way, it wasn't my intention. Thank you.

* * *

**Part Two – Wilson**

House's sudden bout of depression meant he was now being prescribed another drug.

Anti-depressants.

"Wilson would have a laugh at this one," House muttered as he downed the pills the orderly handed him.

Approach the window. Take the paper cup. Swallow the pills. Move on. Next in line, please. One of the horrifying routines of psychiatric hospitals.

"But he's not here, is he?" Amber asked, arching a brow at him.

House glowered in her direction, shuffling back to his room as quickly as possible. Seeing the line of patients that he could now relate to made him feel slightly nauseous.

_I'm not them. I'm not them._

"When are you two finally going to leave?" he snapped, making sure he was in his room with the door closed before speaking.

"Like we said before," Kutner answered from his perch on the chair, "when you've worked through all your issues. You're not ready for us to leave yet."

"_Yes_, I am," House insisted.

"No, you're not," Amber corrected. "Why must you always go against your own subconscious?"

House simply closed his eyes and sighed. He had spoken to Doctor Ryant (Gina) about this, about how the hallucination didn't seem to want to leave because they claimed to "be there for a reason."

Her advice had been to listen to them.

"They are your subconscious," she mentioned. "They know more about you then I do. Still, I will help you through this as best I can; that is the reason why you're here and why I'm here."

And so far that had been the case, as much as he still couldn't stand the sessions or his therapist at times. Group therapy House found to be absolutely useless (having to listen to other people work out their issues was _not_ how he wanted to waste his time), but the one-on-ones were helping him sift through the maze of his mind.

He'd resisted Gina for the first couple of weeks; he didn't need her help. Or so he thought.

"I'm willing to sit in silence with you every day if that's what you need," she'd said early on. "I'm ready to talk when you are."

And true to her word, she'd waited him out, only prodding him every now and then.

Until House finally broke.

"Who's Amber?" Gina asked.

House said nothing and stared at the wall over her shoulder. Amber sat next to him, scoffing at his lack of response.

"Friend? Girlfriend? Wife?" Gina continued.

Amber laughed in disbelief. "_Wife_?"

"Dead," House answered in monotone.

"I'm sorry." Sympathy was laced in her voice. "How did it happen?"

_Bus crash. My fault._

"Does it matter?" he said instead.

A soft sigh in response.

"She must have been very important to you if your subconscious chose her."

_Not really._

"Not to me."

"Then to who?" Gina pressed on, leaning forward in her chair.

_Wilson._

House turned his head away and clenched his eyes shut; they were burning.

_Stop. Please stop._

She was starting to poke at one of his deepest wounds.

"Greg, let me help you," she said quietly. "I know you want help; you wouldn't come back here for each session if you didn't want help."

"Are you actually going to trust her?" Amber said harshly.

_Leave me alone._

A tear slipped unwillingly from his eye and he hunched even farther over, arms wrapped around his torso.

"Pathetic," Amber muttered in his ear.

_Go away._

"I can't. I can't," he chanted, choking back a sob.

_Make it stop._

"Make them go away," he whispered, finally looking at Gina pleadingly.

She smiled sadly at him.

"I'll do my best, Greg."

House hadn't had a breakdown since that day, but it was a turning point for him. And even though he still would snap at her, House had come to appreciate his therapist more and more.

Because, truthfully, House could not do this on his own.

And with his time at Mayfield now standing at a little over a month, he was finally starting to adjust to life at the hospital.

Adjustment, right; more like submission. Voluntary, yet forced. That's what this hospital stay was to him. The choice taken away from him.

No one had called or written since his time at Mayfield had started. No one had tried to contact him for an entire month. Visits might be off-limits, but everything else was okay. House couldn't say he was surprised though; he actually expected it.

One month. Thirty days. 730 hours.

His concept of time had expanded since he'd been at the hospital. With nothing to do besides go through the grind of every day and watch the clock, time became one's friend.

So no, he wasn't surprised by the lack of contact, but it still hurt. Didn't he matter?

The unannounced visits caught him off guard. Oh, he hoped; who wouldn't? But expectations; never. If people aren't going to write or call for a whole damn month, why the hell would they bother visiting? House, as confident as he made himself seem on the outside, knew that most people did not like him.

Actually, no one really liked him.

"And why do you think that is?" Amber whispered softly in his ear.

_Go away._

House shoved himself to his feet and snatched one of his medical journals off the nightstand in his room, leaving the room as quickly as possible. He'd managed to pack a few things besides clothes when he'd been limping around his apartment in a daze.

The large common and visitation room of the hospital was actually House's favorite place in the entire building. It was the only place that didn't feel like a hospital nor look like a slightly more elaborate jail cell. It was wide and brightly lit, with large windows that gave it a more airy and open feel. Numerous couches and chairs dotted the room, along with several round tables. Instead of the walls being plastered with the hideous flowery wallpaper that was customary everywhere else, these walls were painted in a soft green, the furniture colored several shades darker yet matching perfectly.

Usually House would've despised such a color coordinated scheme that was obviously meant to give the illusion of calm. Here, it was an escape from the monotony that ruled his life now.

House settled himself in a corner as far away from everyone else as possible. For some inexplicable reason, the people here seemed to think he was in need of a friend and would try talking to him. He hated talking to anyone on the best of days; he wasn't about to change that now.

Idle chit-chat; not his thing.

_Go away._

A low table and a couch were situated across from him, the door to the common room just visible beyond them. Easy access to an escape route if need be. Setting his reading glasses on his nose, House buried himself in his current issue of _JAMA_.

Hours (minutes?) later, he found his reading unexpectedly interrupted.

"House."

House froze when he recognized the voice, but refused to look up. Why would…?

_No way_.

"House," Wilson said again, a note of pleading in his voice. "You'll have to look at me at some point."

"Really?" House managed to say, still without looking up. "I think I'm doing just fine right about now."

"Don't be a jerk," Wilson huffed, seating himself on the couch across from House.

Always a jerk. Why did everyone have to view him that way?

House watched him from his peripheral vision. How Wilson slouched in to the cushions and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. How he tapped his fingers on his knees and kept shooting glances in House's direction. How he finally got fed up as the minutes of silence ticked by.

"This is ridiculous," Wilson snapped. "I'd thought you'd be happy to see somebody, _me_, after being here over a month."

"Since when have I ever been happy?" House finally looked up at him and arched his eyebrow.

"So you do acknowledge my existence," Wilson muttered, ignoring House's previous statement.

"Well according to you, as long as it conveniences me."

"I've never said that." Wilson looked offended.

Well, that offensive look was only going to get worse if this conversation took the direction House was thinking it might go in.

"Maybe not; it was implied though. I'm able to interpret your annoyed face pretty well by now."

And one…two…three…

"That one right there!" House exclaimed, sitting back and looking smug. "I must admit, I've missed those looks. Actually, I take that back. The staff here does nothing but look at me that way."

"Don't forget us over here," Kutner piped up from his perch on a chair a few feet away.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

"As your subconscious, we can hear you," Amber stated. "So stop that."

Wilson's disgruntled look was vanishing. House was no longer paying attention to him, too caught up in _Amber_ and _Kutner_.

_What's going on?_

Wilson's voice sharply cut through the air. "I'm here; stop ignoring me."

House snapped his head around, blinking in surprise. Huh. He'd totally forgotten Wilson was still there.

Another side effect that Gina had mentioned; "They can make you ignore reality and the people in it."

"You ignored me," House said.

Pretend. Antagonize. Throw him off. Wilson barely paid attention to him as it was. That hurt to think about.

"What?"

"You didn't write," House pointed out.

One month. Thirty days. 730 hours.

"Like you'd actually read it," Wilson replied with a roll of his eyes.

"You didn't call."

One month. Thirty days. 730 hours.

"You hate phone calls," Wilson snapped. "Why are you doing this?"

Making sense. Figuring it out. Working the puzzle.

"Why are you here?" House asked instead of answering the question. A question he felt didn't _need_ answering.

"You know what he's going to say to that," Amber whispered.

Don't. Don't.

"Because I care," Wilson said, running his fingers through his hair. "I've…missed you. The hospital isn't quite the same without you there."

House shut his eyes. So predictable. Yet, that small amount of his impact on Wilson's life made his heart beat faster. It was pathetic how he accepted so little from Wilson.

"Okay," he said with resignation in his tone.

Losing control. He always lost control around Wilson. And the other man knew it.

"How are you?" And the way Wilson asked the question House knew it wasn't a simple "how's your day been?" way to ask.

_I hate that question_. Deflect.

"Peachy. The food here is _phenomenal_."

"Don't. Please don't. I don't need platitudes from you right now." Wilson's eyes were filled with misery as he stared at House.

House shut the journal and threw it on top of the table. He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and then rested his chin on his palm. He watched as Kutner wandered around the room, peering over people's shoulders, and how Amber picked at her nails and seemed completely bored with the conversation.

He couldn't blame them; he was feeling bored too.

"I've been better, a lot better. I'm still having…problems. Things…don't always make sense in my head. But nothing has been quite as bad since the final reason that brought me here. I…haven't had a break like that again."

"That's good then. Means the treatment and therapy here are working," Wilson said hopefully.

House glanced back at him and let his chin drop from his hand.

"Yeah. I guess so. They've replaced my Vicodin with Methadone."

"Seriously?"

House felt a sudden urge to smack Wilson. Well, the urge wasn't _quite_ that sudden; he'd been suppressing urges to knock some sense into Wilson for over a year now. Hadn't he mentioned that the Vicodin was a possibility as a cause of these hallucinations? Or did Wilson only pretend to pay attention?

"I take that back," House snapped. "_You_ only listen to _me_ when it conveniences you."

Wilson rubbed his hand over his eyes and sighed in exasperation. He suddenly looked so much older to House. _Old_ and _Wilson_ were two words that never seemed to go together until now.

"Can we just…not," Wilson mumbled.

Whatever. If Wilson wanted to play games…

"So, Methadone," Wilson interrupted his thoughts. "How well does it work for you?"

_It sucks. I want the Vicodin back. I want to get out of here. _

_I want my life back. _

That was what he wanted to say. That was what he wanted Wilson to simply understand. It seemed so long ago that they used to be able to communicate with hardly saying anything at all. Everything was different now.

_Dying does change everything_, House thought bitterly.

Instead, the words that passed his lips were nothing like what he'd been thinking.

"Oh, you know, give a man another type of narcotic and he just bounces right back."

Wilson gave him a bland look that caused House to shift a bit uncomfortably.

One step forward; two steps back. He hated this dance they were engaged in.

"Are you…still seeing Amber?" Wilson finally asked. He looked over House's shoulder like he suddenly expected to see her standing there.

"Unfortunately," he answered with a grimace. "And sorry, I don't share hallucinations; she's not going to appear if you start looking for her."

Wilson gave him an affronted look. "But I thought…"

"Apparently there's more to this than me simply detoxing to make them go away."

"_Them_?" Wilson said, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

"Didn't I mention?" House closed his eyes. "Kutner decided to come along for the ride."

He heard Wilson's sharp intake of breath, along with the soft curse as he banged his shin against the side of the table.

House opened his eyes to see Wilson rubbing his leg furiously, a light blush staining his cheeks. When he caught House looking at him, he sat back a bit, though his hand still clutched his knee.

"So, is he really secretly a woman?" Wilson finally asked with a hint of a smile on his lips, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'm a woman?" Kutner said in a mystified voice while Amber chuckled.

It sounded so much like the real Kutner that House ached with hurt.

On the outside, he simply let out a snort of laughter. "You would jump on that thought first."

Horrible cover-up. He knew right when Wilson had caught him. Knew Wilson saw the grief in his eyes. Knew that he heard the fake laugh. Knew he saw the way House tilted his head in acknowledgement of someone else.

So subtle, yet there.

Maybe Wilson did still know him. Maybe their friendship wasn't as lost as House thought it to be.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

"House?" he questioned softly.

House turned his head away, blinking back the sudden onset of tears. He shouldn't feel this emotional. Hearing the Kutner in his head shouldn't make him feel this way. Kutner was gone now; absolutely nothing could change that fact.

"House," Wilson said again, this time reaching forward to lay a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Kutner's gone," House whispered.

He should have accepted that fact by now. So why did it still feel so raw?

Wilson's hand tightened on his shoulder and his breath hitched.

"I know," he replied quietly. "It's not your fault, House."

"Why?" House's voice sounded so small now; broken.

A strangled noise escaped from Wilson's throat and his fingers tightened to the point of pain, nails biting through House's shirt.

"No one saw it coming, House, no one," Wilson managed to choke out. "It. Wasn't. Your. Fault."

"You're not special. You saw nothing, just like everyone else," Kutner said. "Isn't that what he's trying to say? You're no different from an average person."

No. No.

Deep breaths. Just breathe.

He could ignore them; just give him time.

"I need a minute," he muttered. "Wilson."

"It's okay, House. I'm here."

The hand left House's shoulder and he wanted to cry out; he needed an anchor to reality right now, needed some form of stability.

No, he could do this. Focus. Breathe. Focus. Something Gina had taught him in their sessions; focus on one thing until everything makes sense again.

In. Out. In. Out.

As his vision cleared, House realized he was sitting hunched over, head down and hands clenched so tightly that a couple of nails had broken the skin on his palms.

A voice of a nurse and Wilson's quiet response. Feet moving away. Wilson tapping his fingers on the armrest of the couch, watching him intently, worry clouding his features.

"House, are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" House snarled back, finally lifting his head.

Wilson held up his hands in a passive gesture.

"Sorry, sorry," he said calmly. "You basically just had a panic attack. Technically, the nurse should have administered you something, but you said you needed a minute so I figured you've learned a way to control yourself. And excuse me for caring."

House sat back in the chair and let out a breath.

"I never said not to _care_; it is your pathology. That's not the point."

"Then what _is_ the point? Our conversation has been running in circles since I got here. What is going on, House?"

Damn Wilson for being such a nosy and unrelenting bastard.

House picked up his reading glasses from where they were resting on his lap and started fiddling with them, running his fingers over the frames and avoiding Wilson's calculating gaze.

Part of what he was learning while being here. Open up. Talk.

Damn, this was hard.

"I have to…work out my issues with the people that are involved directly with them," he finally said. "Gina, she's been a great help, but she said part of my resolution has to come through admitting my problems and making a conscious effort to correct them."

"You're making an effort to correct your problems?" Wilson asked in disbelief.

"That's why I'm here, isn't it? I did check in voluntarily after all."

"I…I know. I'm just…surprised. This isn't like you."

"And how do you know what I'm like?" House retorted.

Wilson stared at him in confusion. "House, I'm your best friend. Of course I know what you're like."

"Really? You think you have a complete understanding of me. That's laughable. You gave up any right to tell me what I'm like the moment you turned your back on me."

"House…"

"_You_ said we were never friends, which obviously means you don't get me because how can complete strangers know each other?"

"House, where is this coming from? You're being ridiculous." Wilson's voice was taking on that pitch that meant he was losing control of the conversation and didn't like where it was going.

House could care less at this point; he was on a roll.

"I'm addressing my issues; this happens to be one of them. Gina said I needed to be assertive about it, said I had to hit my problems head-on. Also, the people in my head won't leave until I work things out."

"Wait, what?" Wilson latched on to the last sentence, hoping to steer House away from a conversation that was making him more and more uncomfortable.

"Deflection," Amber said. "Or maybe he just wants to talk about me more."

Amber was suddenly sitting right next to Wilson, smiling sweetly at House. He tried to block her out.

"Apparently Amber and Kutner, AKA my subconscious, won't fully make their way over to the other side until my issues are resolved. And," House said while pointing at him, "I'm on to you."

"_All_ your issues? Well, that'll take years," Wilson said sarcastically. "On to me?"

"Your faith in me is exemplary. You're deflecting. Let's get back to what we were originally talking about."

"Making me look like the bad guy? That was you original point, wasn't it?"

"Because it's all about you, isn't it?" House said dryly. "I already know I'm an ass, but do you realize you're as much of a jerk as I am?"

"Yeah, I'm a real bastard. Putting up with you all these years, putting up with all your crap. That just spells out 'jerk' in big, flashing neon lights," Wilson said sardonically, his voice raising.

Nothing but a burden.

"You left!" House practically shouted.

"I came back!" Wilson jumped to his feet and started to pace anxiously in front of the couch.

House let out a harsh laugh.

"And you honestly think that negates everything? That suddenly there's a clean slate and everything is right in the world? News flash, Jimmy, you can't change the past no matter how much you might want to."

"What are you…?"

"What I'm saying," House cut him off, "is my being here is partly _your_ fault."

Wilson gaped at him in shock before a look of absolute anger and disgust took over. By this time they had attracted the attention of everyone else in the room. House ignored them all though and kept watching Wilson intently, knowing exactly what the other man was about to do.

Without another word, Wilson turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, exactly as House had predicted. That knowledge didn't make the clenching feeling in his chest hurt any less.

"Just how easy did you expect this to be?" Amber whispered directly into his ear.

House watched Wilson walk out the door, the stab of pain hitting him that had nothing to do with the physical beginning to grow.

_I can't do this._

"Easier than this," he admitted quietly.

* * *

_End Part Two_


	3. Part Three: Cuddy

**Author's Note:** I first must apologize for how long this part took for me to get posted. I had to deal with completing my essay for my summer class and then this chapter just _refused_ to be written.

Next I need to thank a few people. I'm dedicating this chapter to a Juliabohemian, whose birthday is today (Happy Birthday again!) and who is just all around awesome. I am _overwhelmingly_ grateful for all the help she gave me in getting this part complete and for the suggestions that allowed me to improve how this part sounds overall. Also, she has generously given me her permission to use parts of her fic Bibliotherapy to supplement House's treatment at Mayfield. All of those parts are in **bold** and to which I claim no ownership. I can not be more grateful for being allowed to use it. (To view the story, visit my Favorites page.)  
I also must thank hephaistia (from LJ) for encouraging me _constantly_, reading sections of this chapter over, and for being a great friend and everybodyliesmd (from LJ) for sending me an overview of certain episodes that allowed me to write this part better. Thank you all so much!

My final exam for my summer class is next week so part four won't be posted until after that. Until that time, I hope you enjoy part three of this story. Thank you for all the wonderful comments to the previous parts.

* * *

**Part Three – Cuddy**

House being visited by Wilson meant Gina now wanted to talk about him.

"Let's discuss your relationship with Doctor Wilson," Gina said.

_Let's not._

"I see that he came to visit you yesterday. How did that go?"

_He stormed out after I blamed him for me being here. Yes, it obviously went wonderfully._

Just like before.

Repeat motion, though the ache hadn't lessened.

"Did the hospital send out a newsletter or something?" House snapped.

Gina raised an eyebrow. "I get a copy of the visitation sign-in sheet each morning, which tells me who visited my patients the day before."

Of course. Privacy and privileges no longer existed here.

_They now owned me._

Another piece of property.

"Of course," he muttered

"What was it like, seeing him again?" Gina rephrased her question, peering intently at him.

_Painful._

"He looks like he lost a little weight," House quipped. "Probably a good thing; he's not getting any younger."

Her eyes narrowed and she tapped her pen.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Oh darn, you caught me." House snapped his fingers and shrugged.

More deflection. Amber snickered in the corner.

House bowed his head and tried to sort his thoughts, but found his emotions about that visit to be so jumbled he couldn't figure out how to voice them.

Disbelief; that Wilson had actually visited him.

Anger; regarding the multiple issues of which they'd only scratched the surface.

Pain; in seeing Wilson walk away from him once more.

And those…those were only a few feelings.

"Greg?" Gina finally said, realizing he wasn't going to answer her.

"I…I don't know…how to…" He gestured feebly with his hands, eyes still on his lap.

"Hmm…I think I understand," she answered.

There was a shuffling noise and House looked up to see that Gina had left her customary seat during their sessions and was now rummaging through a drawer in her desk, a few knick-knacks rattling on the top. The sheer number of random and pointless objects reminded him of Wilson's desk.

There was even a beagle bobble head. Weird.

She finally pulled out a notebook with a black cover and then retook her seat. House eyed the notebook with a hint of distrust.

"What's she up to?" Amber muttered, glaring at the therapist.

Gina leaned forward, a pleased gleam in her eyes.

"I think I know a way to help you, Greg. Well, it's really how you can help yourself."

Oh hell.

But then Gina suggested something he never would have considered.

Never.

"_Poetry_?" House scoffed. "Are you serious?"

"It's one of the best ways to express emotions and feelings without being forthright about it," Gina explained, ignoring his tone. "It's considered therapeutic and since you're still having trouble opening up to me, especially when it comes to the people in your life, maybe this will get you thinking and allow you to speak more freely with me."

_Do I suddenly look like an emo teenager?_

"And what? Do you think I'll get in touch with my feelings if I write sappy words and cry into my pillow?" House scowled at her.

She pushed her lips into a thin line and blinked slowly at him.

"No. I simply think it will be another way to articulate the effect some of your issues are having on you." She paused. "It's been proven to work with other patients."

_I'm not like everyone else._

"You think pretty words will fix all your problems?" Amber said, appearing suddenly at his side.

Not likely.

"And…this will help?" House finally asked, ignoring the blonde next to him and focusing only on his therapist.

"I think it will," Gina answered firmly. "And I'm not requiring you show them to me or anyone else; they're for you. If you _want_ to discuss them that is entirely your choice."

Maybe…maybe it would help. Another outlet that didn't include listening to the constant chatter of his subconscious.

Another way to curb the pain.

But…

"So you're saying, whatever I write, it's just for me? You're not going to…pull something and require me to hand them all over?"

He'd never had a reason to trust any therapist before now. He may like Gina a little, but that amount of liking had a limit.

Gina smiled slightly; catching on to the mistrust in House's voice.

"No, Greg. I assure you, I'm not going to make that a requirement. It would go against the ethical code I set for myself."

Ethical code. House snorted at those words.

"Lovely. Ethical and moral codes have done _so_ well for me in the past."

"I know you don't trust many people, if any," Gina responded. "In this instance though, I'm going to ask you to have some trust in me. You only know what I tell you or show you, but I'm hoping over the course of your time here we can form some sort of relationship that you can take _some_ comfort in."

House wanted to balk at them. He wanted nothing more than to snarl and hurl cruel words at her. He was practically programmed to resist any help from others.

He hated feeling dependent.

Yet…she had a point.

"I'm not going to make you my bestest buddy suddenly," he insisted.

Gina laughed and tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear.

"That's all right. I doubt you'd pass my "buddy test" anyway."

House cracked a smile. That phrase could have been insulting, but the soft teasing tone she used suggested otherwise and he found himself more amused than anything.

_That_ was how Gina was building trust with him.

"Okay," House acquiesced. "I'll write some poetry."

After that session, House found himself in his room, staring down at the first blank page in the small notebook Gina had given him. He held a pencil loosely in his hand but made no move yet to write. Amber and Kutner flitted about in his peripheral vision, surprisingly quiet for once.

No words of scorn?

Silence.

Guess so.

He continued to stare at the unmarked paper, gaze unfocused, breathing in short gasps. How could he do this? He'd never written anything close to poetry before. He'd written journal articles sure, but this?

_Write what I feel._

He snorted under his breath. That was the problem; what did he feel?

"You know what you feel," Kutner said, breaking the silence of his subconscious.

House looked up to see Kutner standing next to the bed, staring down at him sadly. Amber suddenly wasn't there and he wondered briefly if that meant the Kutner side of his mind was overpowering her.

That almost made him laugh.

"I'm a better help to you in this way," Kutner reasoned. "Do you see Amber writing poetry?"

House did laugh at that.

"And you did? Kept a journal and everything?"

"You never asked. Maybe." Kutner shrugged, lips down turning a bit.

All traces of laughter gone now, House continued to stare at his former fellow.

Why did he have to die?

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, blinking rapidly and clutching the pencil even tighter in his hand.

And oh God, was he sorry.

Kutner tilted his head, regarding him with eyes House found impossible to read. How unfair that his subconscious manifestations could read _his_ mind, but he had no way of telling their thoughts. Guess that's why they were called his subconscious.

"I wish that you were real," House continued, fighting back the sudden onset of tears. "I wish you could visit me in real life."

"I know," Kutner responded. "But there's nothing you can do about that. It's in the past now. Time to acknowledge that and make peace with it."

"How?" House whispered, shutting his eyes and rocking a bit.

"Write," Kutner said, tapping the notebook. "Also, work on talking about your issues with others. Gina's a start. After that…you know who you should be speaking with."

House looked up again, trying to read the answer in Kutner's eyes.

He knew, he knew who Kutner meant. But…that wasn't as easy as it sounded; there was too much damage there, too many issues. House pushed and pushed and pushed; the breaking point was nearing again.

"You don't know that," Kutner snapped, a small amount of frustration tinging his voice.

_**A lifetime of memories.**_

_**Erased in one fell swoop.**_

_**Carried away in a cardboard box.**_

_**Sorry is just a word.**_

House didn't even realize he'd written the words down until they were suddenly staring back at him. They made sense though, so much sense.

How fitting that his first poem should be about Wilson. House smiled at the notion.

"The first step is always the hardest," Kutner said.

Oh how wise he was now.

Days later, Gina was sitting across from him again, standard clipboard positioned on her lap and her pen tapping on the edge.

"How's your progress been with the poems?" she asked.

House's glance shifted over to Kutner again, who sat on top of Gina's desk playing with the bobble head. Amber again, was nowhere to be seen.

"Okay," he managed to say. "Not…a lot written."

"I didn't expect a whole book filled yet," Gina said, a small smile gracing her features.

Enticing him to relax.

House only shifted more uncomfortably.

"Don't lie," Kutner said.

"I wrote…one," he admitted, looking away and out the window.

Watch the leaves shiver in the breeze. Watch the sun gleam off the glass. Ignore the sterile world he was a part of now.

"I'm proud of you, Greg," Gina said. "That's very good."

Proud of him. Why did he hate hearing that?

"Maybe you need some encouragement to write. I've decided to give you some assignments to focus your writing on; it might be a way to get you thinking. Of course, write whatever you want still. But I'd like to see you address certain issues and maybe it would allow me to help you during these sessions more."

She paused and shifted in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"Let me give you an example."

_Uh oh. Story time._

"If I was given an assignment asking about my life growing up as a child, I would mention living in the heart of New York City and being raised solely by my mother. Those two points are very important to me and had an impact on who I turned into."

"Deadbeat dad?" House asked, hoping to strike a nerve.

Not even a flinch. She must be used to rude comments and harsh words by now.

"No. He just walked out," she said calmly, smoothing down her shirt.

Oh okay. So she was kind of like a female Chase, except for the being black part. That made her more like Foreman.

Foreman and Chase combined? That was a bit of a strange thought.

And House needed to stop comparing the people he met to his fellows.

"Well you get to see Amber and I all the time," Kutner spoke up. "It's only natural to search for everyone else you know."

Useless subconscious.

"All right," Gina interrupted his thoughts, gazing at him in a way that meant she knew his mind had just wandered. "Let's move on to what I'd like _you_ to write about first."

Assignment One: Describe your feelings concerning your addictions; drugs, alcohol, etcetera.

"I'd like to know more about that aspect of your life," Gina explained.

_I'd rather you not._

They helped when he needed them to. What more was there to say?

So much.

He found himself acquiescing to her request. She dropped the subject of his addictions and steered the conversation in a whole new direction.

Stop doing that.

Confusion.

"There's something you mentioned to me in one of your first sessions, your relationship with your boss and how she is related to you coming here finally."

No. Stop.

"Oh! I want to hear this!" Amber was now there, sitting next to him.

_Go away. Kutner, come back._

Gone again.

"The delusion that brought you here; your mind made it out to be reality for a reason."

Oh God. Oh God.

He hated to think about that. That delusion; nothing but a lie.

Did he want it to be reality though?

It was a question House still scrabbled with in his mind. It was one he couldn't make sense of.

Did he want Cuddy, or was there some deeper meaning behind it that had nothing to do with Cuddy at all?

"Greg?" Gina prodded.

She seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

"Yes, _Greg_," Amber said mockingly, "why did you make up that delusion?"

Normal. He wanted to be normal. He wanted another life.

"It was…" he started and then stopped.

_A coping mechanism._

"Nothing. It meant nothing," he said.

"It obviously meant something. It caused you to have a psychotic break," Gina answered gently.

"She…" House stopped again, not really knowing what he wanted to say.

"She was your little fantasy," Amber filled in for him. "She was a lie you made up because everything with her is a lie. Don't you know that?"

No. Yes. Maybe.

"I could have her, but I can't," House said quietly.

"And why is that?" Gina asked, leaning back in her chair.

"It's not…the story I want," he said slowly.

His eyes widened a bit, like he could hardly believe he'd just said that.

Was that true? Hasn't he wanted Cuddy for months now? Hadn't he been chasing after her since that night?

It had all started with a kiss, one that felt like it had taken place years ago. It was a culmination of tension that finally exploded after an argument.

How fitting; everything between them seemed to be volatile.

Then all the moments afterward had just sort of runoff from there. He had become swept up in something that he could barely keep up with.

But now…

Now what?

She was beautiful; there was no question of that. Was that it though? Was all he felt for her something as shallow as sexual desire and lust?

Possibly.

He couldn't handle the way she was now. He couldn't handle that she had changed so much. They used to have chemistry; they used to be able to banter and communicate in a way that always kept him on his toes. Now though…

Making herself a mom, snatching up a baby. Everything seemed to change with that.

_**Manufactured comfort.**_

_**Artificial love.**_

_**Make room in your heart.**_

Maybe for that damn baby, but no longer for him.

House realized he didn't care. Not anymore. At one time, yes. But feelings that were never built on anything stronger than sand fade with time.

"Not the story you were looking for," Kutner said, breaking the silence.

And Kutner was back; he couldn't keep up with his subconscious anymore.

"It's not bad to think that, Greg," Gina said, gesturing with her hand. "People move in and out of relationships before finally finding someone they want to stick with for a long time."

_And I thought I had that once._

No. Not thinking about _that_.

"I know that," he said. "It's just…complicated."

He'd never meant for it to go as far as it did.

Seeming to realize he didn't want to discuss Cuddy or relationships anymore, Gina dropped the subject (though he had no doubt she'd bring it up again later; she was nosy in that way). Not long after that, he left.

Kutner followed behind him. "Don't forget your assignment."

Shit.

House ignored the notebook sitting oh so innocently on his nightstand though. He'd deal with that later, not that he particularly _wanted_ to.

The room suddenly felt like it was suffocating him.

_Leave now._

House was back in the common room of the hospital, sulking in the corner and reading once again. He ignored the unusually loud chatter that filled the room; it was a Saturday so the number of visitors was higher than normal.

_Gotta visit the crazy people; see the show._

Yeah, he was slightly bitter.

For once, House found himself entirely alone. As the days and weeks passed, Amber and Kutner were no longer active presences following him constantly and invading his mind. They still appeared at random times, yes, but only when it seemed he was losing his grasp on his emotions and practically falling apart. Or when it seemed he couldn't figure out exactly how to sort his thoughts and feelings.

Okay, he took that back; they were still around quite often. Just not…_always_.

House couldn't be happier that Amber was fading, taking her snarky and manipulatively harsh side with her. Kutner though, he had to admit, he missed at times. If he couldn't have the living Kutner hanging around and being a part of his team, at least having some moments to see him were better than nothing.

He wanted his mind back though, and that meant removing all aspects of his visual subconscious.

He was dealing, he was trying. It was getting better.

Slowly.

The murmuring sound of voices drawing closer to the table he was sitting at caused House to look up from the journal he was reading.

Ah damn. He didn't need this.

"Cuddy. Here to pay a conjugal visit? I hate to break it to you, but there are cameras everywhere, unless that's your thing." House leered at her and winked.

Act normal. Be a jerk. Pretend that delusion never took place.

Lisa Cuddy sent him a tight smile in return that in no way reached her eyes. She stepped closer to the table House was sitting at, her heels muffled on the carpeted floor. He found himself sorely disappointed when he noticed she was wearing a deep green turtleneck with a black blazer over top it.

So much for getting some enjoyment out of this visit.

Interesting how she felt the need to cover herself up whenever she was around him now. Kind of like wearing a sign with a big red X on it.

_No entry allowed._

House almost chuckled at the thought and had to bite his lip to contain himself.

Cuddy didn't notice. Oblivious.

"House. How are you?"

The sympathy in her eyes disgusted him and he turned his head away sharply to gaze out the window next to him. At times like these, House wished he had his cane to clutch, wished that he could tap his fingers against the smooth wood. His cane, as much as it was a reminder of his disability, it was a comfort he had grown used to. Now it was gone and there was nothing to distract his hands with.

"Where's the runt?" House asked, ignoring her question.

"With the babysitter. I wasn't going to bring her here."

_Ouch._

By this time, Cuddy had fully reached his little corner of solitude, close enough for House to touch if he so desired.

Yet the desire was no longer that strong.

Huh.

"What? Mental illness spreads? You think if you bring your baby here she'll catch what I have?" House frowned at her. "Thanks, Cuddy. I suddenly feel _so_ much better with you here."

"You know that's not what I meant," she said angrily. "You're twisting my words around."

"Cuddy, there comes a point when you have to admit you made a mistake and insulted a person without meaning to," House responded, sounding tired.

The anger is Cuddy's eyes dissipated and now she only stared at him with pity.

That look was almost worse.

"I'm sorry," she said. It did sound sincere.

Good. Got that out of the way. Forms of saying sorry always made him feel uncomfortable.

"I can't say that I'm surprised you didn't bring your little bundle of joy," House found himself muttering now. "I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen you with that thing."

Three? Four? Five was pushing it.

Cuddy pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, obviously biting back another retort, something she never usually did.

Nice. Tip-toe around the mentally ill cripple.

It was like being made of fucking china.

And now he had the whole two-for-one deal going on. Just what he wanted; to be even more special and singled out.

_I hate this._

She set her bag on top of the table and slid the chair across from House out, the metal legs scraping against the carpet and roughing the fibers. Wincing, she gingerly took a seat and crossed her legs, no small feat in a skirt that tight.

"Time for me to make an appearance again," Amber suddenly said from right next to him.

House almost groaned aloud when he saw her sitting in the chair to his left. Oh how he hated that smug look on her face and how her eyes took on this glint when she glanced at Cuddy.

Looking increasingly uncomfortable with the silence, Cuddy opened her purse and started rummaging through it.

"I have something for you," she said, hands still busy searching.

"Ooo…a present? For me?" House said, forcing unnatural glee into his tone.

Cuddy glared at him with that patented look he was so used to. He _had_ missed that in a way.

"Please tell me it's a bottle of lube. I'm not getting any action in here and I have to pass the time some way."

Cuddy made a disgusted noise at that thought before finally lifting her hand out of her purse triumphantly, no hint of a blush on her face.

What was the point of those comments if he couldn't even get her flustered anymore?

God she was boring.

"Wilson…Wilson wanted me to give you this," she said.

She extended her hand toward House, which held an envelope. House stared at it like it was a ticking time bomb set to go off any minute. All traces of humor left him.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"What is it?"

"A letter, House," she said in exasperation. "I don't know the contents; Wilson made me promise not to look."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

House still just stared at it.

"_Take_ it," she insisted.

House gingerly extracted it from her grasp, fingertips brushing over the plain white surface. Blank, no name.

Not good enough for a visit, only a letter.

_Here's your brush off. Signed. Sealed. Delivered._

"How long did you expect him to stick around this time?" Amber said, crossing her arms and placing them on the table.

_Shut up._

"Aren't you going to read it?" Cuddy asked once she saw he was setting it aside.

He glared at her.

"Not with you here," he snapped.

She ducked her head, dark curls falling across her cheek. Amber smirked.

House didn't know how to handle her visiting him. The last time they had seen each other House had been suffering from a break down in her office, practically begging for help, and Cuddy had been filled with confusion, not knowing how to give that help. She'd then left him in Wilson's office, one last glance over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

At that point, he'd still wanted her, remembering the night that had never actually occurred and wishing it were real.

Now…

_I don't want her. Not in that way._

"Well, obviously," Amber said arrogantly.

_Fuck off._

Noticing the silence was stretching on, House opened his mouth to actually form some type of apology when Cuddy beat him to it.

"So, Wilson said you were doing better, and I must say, you look better. What do they have you on?"

From her comment, House had to assume that she knew nothing about his fight with Wilson.

Good. He didn't want her poking around in what he felt was none of her business.

"Off the Vicodin, on the Methadone. Different pain management. Therapy sessions." House shrugged. "It's all about getting in touch with my _feelings_ now."

Cuddy ignored the glib remark and immediately her professional face came on. It went well with the outfit.

"Methadone. That's good. I'm glad they got you off the Vicodin."

House clenched his teeth at that. It was like her and Wilson sat in rooms together and conspired how to make their words sound identical these days.

Broken records.

"Oh. So _now_ you're all for the Methadone. Funny, I seem to recall you threatening to fire me a couple of months ago when I tried it then."

"That was different," Cuddy answered swiftly.

"Really? This whole hypocrite thing is beginning to get old."

Wilson. Now Cuddy. Who was next?

At least his therapist didn't play that game.

"How are you adjusting to the Methadone?" she's asked only the day before.

Until then, House_ and_ Gina had skirted the whole issue of his pill intake. Probably not the wisest decision on her part, but House was grateful nonetheless. He wasn't really keen on discussing the most obvious aspect of his pain management; he never had been.

Just ask Wilson.

"Adjusting as well as I can," he said, staring up at the ceiling.

"And you're willing to accept that?"

"Are you willing to accept my answers? Or are you just going to keep throwing questions back at me?"

House smirked a little when he saw Gina was suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. He'd managed to set her on edge a few times and he took that as a great accomplishment.

"I accept your answers, but I also must ask you to expand on them. It's give and take, Greg. How can I help you unless you tell me everything? So again I ask; _are you willing to accept that_?"

Of course his life story was on the table, but hers was off limits. Perks of being a therapist.

"Yes."

There had been nothing else to say.

"House?" Cuddy's sharp use of his name meant she'd been trying to gain his attention for quite some time.

"It's not different," he finally said. "You just don't like that you can't control me. You don't want me to be happy."

"That's not true. House, you're being ridiculous."

"I feel like we've had this conversation before," House pondered. "Oh that's right; we did. You don't want me on Methadone then you do want me on Methadone. God I hope your inability to make a decision doesn't extend to your job."

Cuddy started to respond furiously, eyes sparking with rage.

"Oh wait," House cut her off before she even started, "it does."

"Harsh," Amber said with a grin. "I like it."

She would.

Cuddy glowered at him, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.

"I see you haven't lost any of your usual charm while being here," she snapped. "I took the time to come and visit you and you want to what? Play games? Dredge up all your worst insults?"

"Huh, you thought that was bad? How long have you known me and how many times have I said much worse than that?" House raised his eyebrows at her.

Cuddy looked away; he'd caught her with that one.

"Why are you so upset then, hmm?" House wondered, tilting his head. "Did you expect me to change _completely_ now that I'm here? You expect me to be this entirely different person now? I have problems, yes. I have issues that need to be fixed, yes. I'm not going to stop being me though."

House paused.

"I think I had this conversation with Wilson. God, you're practically merging into one person lately."

Okay, that was creepy.

Forget that thought.

"We both worry about you," Cuddy tried to explain.

Wonderful way of showing it.

"I can tell," he said sarcastically.

"House…" Cuddy trailed off wearily.

She was doing it again, acting like he was some burden that she put up with only because she _had_ to. Had she ever really cared about him? Had she ever actually wanted him?

There was no denying she _seemed _to want him, but then she'd started playing games, literally _hurting_ him. All in the name of frustration.

Some boss she was.

That was when the downfall started for them.

"Oh please," Amber scoffed. "It started way before that and you know it."

House curbed the urge to lash out.

"You claim you worry about me, _care_ about me even," he said. "Yet you have no problem enacting your own form of juvenile revenge."

Cuddy blinked at him in confusion, brow furrowing.

"What are you talking about?"

Of course she'd forget the hurt she'd caused him; it's not like it was worth remembering for her.

_I'm only worth something when it's convenient. _

"Trip wire; I have to admit, that was clever."

"I…"

"Hurt like hell though," House said, scowling at her. "Since when did it become okay for the Dean of Medicine to take physical revenge on her employees?"

He could still remember the pain he felt as his body hit the floor. Could still remember the humiliation of his team standing over him.

"I never…" Cuddy struggled with her words, her eyes oozing misery. "I was angry."

"And what? That makes what you did okay?" House snarled. "Wonderful. Next time I deck an insufferable patient's father, I'll just use the "angry" excuse. I'm sure that'll go over _real_ big with you and your lawyer."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"The next time someone threatens to sue, I'll just leave you out in the cold then. How does that sound?"

House sent her a tight smile, glaring furiously at her.

"You do realize I could sue _you_ for malicious intent toward a person with a disability, right? I mean, what do you think the Americans with Disabilities Act is for?"

"You wouldn't," Cuddy responded crossly. She suddenly looked unsure though.

"Wanna bet? People have done less and been punished worse. I could have seriously injured myself when I fell; broken arm, broken leg, bruises, sprains, etcetera. I could go on if you like."

Cuddy was starting to get that look of pity in her eyes again, along with a dawning sense of horror.

Good. He wanted her to squirm, to think about what she'd done.

"What did you expect, House? You _drove_ Cameron off, a suitable replacement who can actually put up with your insanity!" Cuddy practically shouted before lowering her voice. "You _knew_ I wanted to spend more time with Rachel. You knew that and yet you still decided being an ass was more important."

There's that word again…

"I _expected_ for you to treat me like a human being and to treat me like I actually _matter_. In fact, you should be doing the same with the hospital. Forgive me for thinking that you actually have a _job_ to do," House said. "Silly me."

Cuddy put a hand to her temple and closed her eyes. House could almost feel the tension rolling off of her in waves.

"I'm _sorry_, okay? I was wrong and you're right. The hospital needed me, but I was so intent on wanting to blame _someone_ I took it out on you. It was selfish and childish and _I'm sorry_."

That was the third time she'd said that word now and still House felt almost nothing.

It was nice to know she was finally feeling regret though.

"This was a mistake," she continued, eyes still closed.

_I'll say._

"There have been a lot of mistakes in the past year," House admitted. His gaze flickered toward Amber, who regarded him silently.

Amber. Cuddy. Kutner.

"Letting Wilson walk away," Amber added on, her tone oddly morose.

Don't think about that. Not right now.

A desperate gleam suddenly entered Cuddy's eyes and she made a grab for his hands resting in fists on top of the table.

"House, did you really…"

He saw what was coming, and he didn't want to hear it.

"Why are you here?" House cut her off mid-sentence, sliding his hands away and onto his lap.

Cuddy's mouth snapped closed and she gave him a bewildered look.

"Hou…"

"_Why_ are you here?" House demanded, slamming his hand down on the table.

The table rattled on its uneven legs and she jumped in surprise.

"I…I'm _worried_ about you," Cuddy stumbled out. House hadn't seen her stutter in a while; it was entertaining.

"Worried about _me_ or your hospital asset?" he almost snarled.

"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you think that my only stake in your well-being is how much money you can bring in. I'm your friend; I care for you."

How many people had said that to him? How many people had claimed to care for him, yet only betrayed him in the end?

Had only ended up hurting him?

His dad. His mom. Stacy. Cuddy. Wilson.

And those were only the big ones.

"We already talked about your level of care, Cuddy," House said dejectedly. "I don't need it."

He was starting to get a headache from their conversation. Amber was now sitting in a depressive slouch that he was completely unaccustomed to.

He needed to end this soon.

_It's getting to be too much._

"No," Cuddy whispered. "I don't suppose you do."

Her shoulders slumped and he had to look away.

"I'm sorry. I never meant…I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for everything to get out of control. I never meant…for _this_," she continued.

Another sorry. That was probably the best he was going to get from her.

"Yeah well, you're not…_completely _why I'm here," House answered.

She huffed out a small laugh.

"Maybe not, but…but I didn't help in any way."

House shrugged.

"No, I guess not."

She hadn't really helped, no way to deny that fact. But there were bigger issues than her that he had to deal with.

There was much more to this than his delusional fantasy about Cuddy.

And his head was throbbing again.

"You and I, we can never be anything," House said quietly, not daring to look up and see her reaction.

_I can't deal with tears._

"I know," she said in that tone that meant she'd come to that conclusion long before him.

He glanced up, but now she was the one staring off.

"I…I have things going on with my life," she continued finally. "And you have your own issues."

Like those were the only reasons. House was tempted to roll his eyes.

"We're better as colleagues and friends," she finished.

Cuddy finally looked back over at him, a small smile on her face.

House tried to smile back, but all he was thinking was _why couldn't we have agreed on that sooner and done away with these past months?_

Damn Cuddy for not being able to let go.

Damn Wilson for pushing and pushing and pushing and acting like a matchmaker.

Damn himself for giving in to the feeling of being _wanted_ again.

What a screwed up mess this whole situation was.

"Nice to know you're _finally_ seeing things that way," Amber said, looking smug again.

He liked her more when she was depressed and quiet.

"Well, glad we got that all settled," House said, adopting an overly chipper quality to his tone. "I mean, how awkward was that?"

Cuddy laughed, and this time it seemed genuine.

"I need to go now; I promised the babysitter I would be back _fairly_ early."

She stood up slowly, seeming unsure of how to wish House goodbye.

_Okay, now it's awkward._

"Bye, House. You take care." She patted him lightly on the shoulder before removing her hand.

She started to walk away before halting and abruptly spinning back around.

"Please read that letter from Wilson soon. He's been…weird…since he visited you. Whatever you two are going through right now, fix it."

House gaped at her in surprise.

_Why am I always the bad guy? How come I always have to fix things?_

"Uh…right," he said. "Because I guess it just _has_ to be my fault. Why don't you go yell at Wilson? I guess the whole _saintly demeanor_ is a little disconcerting."

"What?" Cuddy was now watching him suspiciously.

"Hey," House said, putting his hands up, "I'm just saying, you always blame me first and take pity on Wilson."

Cuddy placed her hands on her hips and stalked a few steps forward before halting again.

Interesting.

"Because it usually _is_ your fault, House."

Right.

"Get out," he said instead. "You've said what you needed to say; now get out and go back to your baby."

"House," Cuddy said softly, ignoring what he'd just said. "I just don't want to see Wilson and you go through another falling out. It practically tore you apart last time."

"Thanks for your concern," he said sarcastically. "I feel overwhelmingly better now. You can go."

"House, don't."

"_Go_," he repeated.

Cuddy looked down at the floor and then nodded.

_Things are better this way._

"I'll see you later," she said, turning again to go and walking away as fast as possible.

He couldn't even appreciate the view.

The door swung shut behind her, and House mentally shut the door on them as well. It never would have worked. In the end, they would have destroyed each other.

"She was never right for you anyway," Amber said calmly, now from her perch on the windowsill.

House ignored her, instead continuing to stare blankly at the door. Amber scoffed.

"As your subconscious, you can't ignore _that_. You simply made up a pretty little story. It was quite inventive I must say."

"Kind of like the story of how you tried to convince everyone I was murdered," Kutner added quietly.

He was back again.

"The story you really want is what you must come to terms with."

"And what story is that?" House asked blandly.

"That is something _you_ need to figure out," Amber stated. "Alone."

Great. What was the point of having a subconscious talk back to you if they wouldn't even help you in the first place?

"Do you think we'll just give you answers if you ask?" Amber laughed loudly. "Oh, House, if you don't even know what you want, how are we supposed to know?"

"We can only take you so far," Kutner interjected.

Was it possible to smack your subconscious? House wanted to find out.

"Open the letter," Amber said suddenly, derailing his thoughts of wiping that smirk off of her face with his cane.

Ah, the Letter. The one currently sitting on the table in front of him, mocking him, daring him.

Open. Read.

Trying to ignore the shaking of his hands, House picked up the envelope and quickly yanked the single sheet of paper out.

_House,_

_I've thought about what you said. We need to talk some more. I'm coming back on the 27__th__. Don't try to avoid me._

_Wilson_

House crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it across the room.

Words. More words, when all he wanted were actions.

"Just like him," Amber said.

_I know._

Disappointments, both of them. Both wanting to fix, both wanting to save.

_It's not possible, don't you know that?_

_**One less cold body.**_

_**Follow the directions to happiness.**_

_**Sign on the dotted line.**_

_**Some assembly required.**_

_**Manufactured comfort.**_

_**Artificial love.**_

_**Make room in your heart.**_

_**Another orphan is being born as we speak.**_

_**And you cannot possibly save them all.**_

Not even him.

* * *

_End Part Three_


	4. Part Four: Wilson

**Disclaimer: **All poems included belong to Juliabohemian and are from her fic Bibliotherapy.

**Author's Note: **I apologize for the delay. This chapter has been reworked so many times I've lost count. The first draft was just bad and then every edit after that just wasn't worthy of posting. My knowledge of anything medical is so incredibly limited I have trouble with writing it at times. That and I've been suffering from awful writer's block lately. Which isn't good since the semester starts in a month and I will have little to no time to write at that point. I thank everyone for their patience with me though.

Thank you to Juliabohemian and Ash for your abundance of help on this. This part wouldn't read or sound as good if ithadn't looked it over so many times by both of them.

* * *

**Part Four – Wilson**

After Cuddy's visit, House's expectations of anyone else taking the time to see him had diminished considerably. Wilson and Cuddy were the only people in his life that he might be willing to believe actually cared about him. When Cuddy left and all that remained of Wilson was his note, House started wondering how he could possibly pass the time in this Godforsaken place.

Not that he had any belief whatsoever in God; that was beside the point.

"Well, Gina assigned poems to you for a reason," Kutner intoned, his eyes tracking House's relentless pacing in the small space between his bed and the door.

His leg was twinging slightly, some psychological breakthrough pain bullshit that his attending physician kept babbling on about every time they met. The Methadone was a much more effective physical pain blocker, but that didn't mean it could block _other_ types of pain. Psychosomatic pains still haunted him, all in his mind yet anguishing nonetheless.

And there was also _mental_ and _emotional_ pain that Gina kept explaining. Pain that was manifest of everything he'd been dealing with over the past several years.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

The pain was real. Couldn't any of the doctors here see that? Even Gina? She saw him frequently since his therapy sessions took place a few days per week. Didn't she notice what he was going through?

"It's not real," Kutner reasoned. "You know that now and you knew that three years ago."

House snarled at him, but didn't let up on his pacing.

The pain and restlessness had left House in no mood to write, despite Gina's insistence that it would actually be helpful.

_Right. _Like writing a poem could restore his leg. As if it could bring back the removed muscle tissue and allow him to walk normally.

Pretty words weren't going to solve anything.

"Maybe they can," Kutner said. "Words have saved people in the past."

_Not in my previous experience._

Finally tired of pacing, House stretched himself out on the bed. He reluctantly pulled his writing notebook towards him, and flipped to a clean page.

He never wanted _anyone_ to read what he wrote. It was personal, labeled "HIS EYES ONLY" in big red letters with a lot of tape.

Not that he had access to any tape.

If he had a shredder, each paper would be sliced into tiny pieces the minute they were finished. Sadly, no shredders allowed here. Not a big stretch of the imagination to figure out the why behind that.

_Heh._

The assignment Gina had given him was a little harder to formulate than he thought it would be, no matter how many times the Kutner in his subconscious hassled him about it.

"Just put down what you're feeling," Kutner mentioned. He was sitting cross legged on the floor. "You're supposed to think about your addictions and how they've affected your life."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you need me to be here," was Kutner's calm reply.

An evasive remark, as usual.

House ignored him and started tearing little bits of paper in his hands. It was a nervous habit that kept him preoccupied and also prevented him from rubbing his leg insistently.

Psychosomatic pain.

_No. No. Ignore the pain. Concentrate._

_What to write, what to write._

He wasn't entirely up for tackling that whole issue though. That issue, the one that involved him self-medicating with pills and excessive amounts of alcohol, was one he didn't like to contemplate for very long.

At all.

House hated his dependence on inanimate items. The pills, the bottles of alcohol, his cane.

He hated being dependent in general.

It was easier though. The dependency made everything easier. The pain had caused the dependency. The people he knew shouldn't blame him for that.

Yet they all did.

Hell, he even blamed himself.

_**Kneeling, shackled before a faceless master.**_

_**This pathetic excuse for a human being.**_

_**Surrendering the worthless remnants of his soul.**_

_**For just one more dance with an inanimate god.**_

_**That will inevitably leave him with unquenchable thirst.**_

He drowned himself in Vicodin and alcohol and any other type of drug that could possible numb the pain. It was a pain that refused to go away and disturbed him day and night.

What was so wrong about not wanting to be in pain?

But it wasn't just the physical pain. It was also the empty feeling of loneliness, the feeling of worthlessness, how he wasn't good enough. The only way to block that pain was to suppress it with a drug filled haze.

House wasn't worthy of anyone or anything. At least that's what he constantly told himself.

Why else would Stacy have walked away? Why else would Wilson have walked away?

They didn't want what was broken and could not be fixed.

He was damaged goods.

"Which is why Cameron obsessed over you for so long," Amber pointed out. "I must say I'm enjoying all this introspection."

House groaned in annoyance; writing was impossible with her there. Kutner had vanished. But at least the assignment was finished now.

Amber clapped her hands and smiled at him.

"Good. Let's talk then."

_Uh oh._

"I'm not listening or talking to you," House muttered.

_Just go away. Leave me alone._

"House, words _can_ hurt you know." Amber pouted before sitting next to him on the bed, her legs dangling off the side. "I'm only trying to help you."

He was saved from replying by the orderly arriving to escort him to his therapy session.

Small miracles could still happen apparently.

House had to fight the urge to hug him, despite the fact that touching people voluntarily was always something that caused him to recoil.

He'd never been overly affectionate. Words, not actions, were what he used to express himself. At that moment though, faced with the choice between Amber or the orderly, House had never felt more grateful for the man's perfect timing.

Gina glanced up at him briefly from her position behind her desk when House entered the office. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and reading glasses rested on her nose. She was scribbling away on a pad of paper, a thick file opened up in front of her.

Notes from a previous session with another patient.

When Gina reached around behind her and grabbed _his_ file, House couldn't help but feel smug that his was nowhere near as immense.

Had to mean something; the other patient was _way_ crazier.

With all the medical history that House had accumulated throughout his entire life, seeing that _he_ was doing better than someone else was like a small victory. He'd always been the patient with mountains of paperwork. But in here everything was different.

It was strangely gratifying to know that there were people here who were worse off than he, even if that did make him sound like more of an asshole. House was used to others calling him a jerk for his way of thinking, so that didn't bother him. But he knew feeling grateful that he was dealing with less severe problems versus the problems of other patients only served to increase his asshole status.

_Oh well._

"Have a seat, Greg," Gina said, pointing toward the couch with her pen. "I just need another minute."

So what was he supposed to do, twiddle his thumbs?

Scowling a bit, House sat down on the couch and began doing just that. Amber started humming next to him. He longed for the time when having her there would no longer be necessary. He wanted control of his mind again.

_Not today._

Gina finally finished up with her paperwork and flipped open his file, shuffling for a couple of seconds, finally sliding a single piece of paper out from the pile. She removed her glasses and settled herself in her usual chair before looking over at him.

House eyed the paper in her hand with suspicion.

"The assignment I gave you; how did that go?" Gina asked, crossing her legs.

_Straight to the point._

"Beautifully. I think you'll make a writer out of me yet," House said, sarcasm. "I might quit my day job now, take it up professionally. I mean, everyone is writing these days."

"Do you want to quit your day job?"

House blinked in surprise.

"Interesting," Amber drawled.

"Why are you asking that?" House said slowly.

"Because you saying that means you've at least _thought_ about it," Gina pointed out.

Yes, he had thought about it. He'd tried to quit right before he entered Mayfield, and Cuddy had brushed him off.

But did he really want to quit and leave the hospital?

He'd finally be free of patients and people lying to him every day. He wouldn't have to worry about doing his job while in agonizing pain or in a drug-filled haze.

House would miss the puzzles though. He would miss the thrill of solving a mystery and saving someone's life. It was one of the only things that kept him going anymore. As much as it seemed to exacerbate the pain at times, it also helped keep it at bay. The puzzles allowed his mind to think of something else for awhile.

He couldn't lose that, could he?

"Be honest with yourself," Amber whispered. "You'd miss Wilson, too."

House growled low under his breath, hoping it didn't catch Gina's attention.

She was sharp though, and good at her job.

"Greg, why aren't you focusing?" Gina inquired.

House started, jerking in his seat. Amber's laughter filled his head as Gina's eyes held him in place, studying him carefully.

"I don't want to quit," he said almost inaudibly, skirting the more recent question.

_I really don't._

"Why?"

_Of course, she had to ask_ why.

House resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Why though? What was the answer to that?

_It helps with the pain._

"I _like_ my job actually," House said scathingly. "Hard to believe, I know."

Gina continued to gaze at him, waiting for him to say more on the subject.

"And it helps," House finally muttered.

Gina nodded and wrote something down on her clipboard.

"Better than the pills, or the alcohol?"

House glared at her.

"Well, what do you think?" He said mockingly.

"Pills and alcohol _mask_ pain, they don't remove it completely," she explained. "And while you being a doctor and helping people doesn't remove the pain either, it provides you with something else to think about, something to distract from the pain. You _enjoy_ your job because it keeps your mind occupied, not numb. Feeling anesthetized means losing the experience of all sensations. And you crave reality and realism. Going through life desensitized all the time would be you lying to yourself."

House was silent.

"Accurate description I'd say," Amber mentioned thoughtfully. "I may grow to like her."

_Like that would ever happen._

"Oh ye of little faith," Amber chuckled.

"I like what I do," House continued, staring down at his hands. "And I…don't want to lose that."

"And you don't have to," Gina replied gently. "Staying here, getting treatment here, doesn't mean you've lost your opportunity to be a doctor."

_Yes, because I'm sure Cuddy and the donors will absolutely love having a hallucinating drug addict wandering the halls of their hospital._

"Once I and the other doctors have cleared you, you can return to PPTH and resume your position there."

It sounded so simple. Was it really?

"Nothing in life is ever simple," Amber stated. "I know that, so you know that."

She was right. It couldn't be that simple.

That meant he'd have to ask Wilson about it at some point.

_Oh joy._

"Let's talk about the pain management you were undergoing before you came here. During your intake session we went over it briefly and I'd like to hear more."

Gina evidently felt that they were done discussing the subject of his job and was ready to move on.

"If I mentioned it briefly then obviously I don't want to talk about it," House retorted.

Gina ignored the comment. She was getting much better at doing that, dismissing things said purely to deflect from the issue at hand.

Most people became discouraged when faced with his sarcastic and acerbic nature. Upon entering Mayfield his first assumption was that no one would be able to tolerate his attitude, and that the staff would most likely be kicking him out within the first week.

House never expected his therapist to be almost as headstrong as himself. He never expected her to actually have a backbone.

"You were experiencing more and more pain before you came here, at least that is what you told me. You took Vicodin regularly, in increasing amounts. What effect was that having? Were you still in pain? Or suffering from any side effects, both emotional and physical? Explain that to me."

Vicodin. A blessing and a curse all wrapped up in small white capsules.

_**A label that bears my name.**_

_**Tethering me to a bottle full of false promises.**_

_**A relief that does not exist.**_

_**Sentenced to watch everyone else living.**_

_**As I die in slow motion.**_

Day in, day out, they'd slowly been killing him.

Death by Vicodin. Death by failed liver.

The pills had kept him _functioning _at least, and really that had been his only expectation. ___The actual prospect of living pain free was something he'd given up on long ago._

House had tried to rid himself of the pills, by switching to Methadone. But Cuddy, in her desperate attempt to exercise even more control over him, had raised the stakes. She'd forced him to choose between keeping his job and pursuing alternative treatment. And he had eventually gone back to the pills, because he apparently valued his job more than pain free living.

But now it was different. Now the Vicodin was a greater enemy to him than ever, and the Methadone was his only chance. House could no longer tell if the Vicodin was hurting him more than it was helping him. Imminent liver failure was a given. But the more recent hallucinations were an even scarier result.

The Methadone…it was different. And though the delusions and hallucinations were not completely gone, they were fading. If the Methadone couldn't help him, then maybe nothing could. Because he'd either be in too much pain to work or too doped up to realize what was happening.

Either way, his career would be finished.

And despite what Gina might say, Cuddy still had the power to terminate his employment. ___If not the drugs, he knew that she'd find another reason. And if she didn't, he'd probably give her one._

Was the situation truly better? Was being on the _Methadone_ making everything better?

"They were my happy pills. I just couldn't get enough of them," House mocked. "Tasted like candy."

Gina said nothing for a few seconds, her expression blank and calculating. House had to admire her a little for her great poker face.

_I should bring a deck of cards next time._

"I know what you're doing," she finally said. "By deflecting and circumventing all my questions you hope that I'll eventually give up. You've been candid with me a few times. But those moments are few and far between, and the deeper we delve into these sessions the more you pull back and create some distance."

She paused and House found he could only stare at her, trying to conceal his irritation.

How was it that whenever he was sure he was revealing _less_, he was somehow giving her more?

_There's no way she could read me that effortlessly._

"Got me all figured out I see, after what? A month and a half?"

"You're not as complex as you think you are," Amber sneered at him.

_Damn._

"No," Gina disagreed. "I don't have you all figured out. But I _am_ trying to understand you more and I am here to help you understand _yourself_ more."

"So it's all about getting in touch with my feelings, hmm?" House sniped.

_How do I feel? Annoyed. _

_Leave me alone._

"You could put it in those terms, yes," Gina replied.

"At least she's honest about her motives," Amber pointed out, tapping her fingers on her knees.

_Doesn't matter. Therapists are useless._

The little beagle bobble head on Gina's desk nodded at him.

House wanted to throw it out the window.

"The Vicodin," Gina said, trying to bring House back to her original question. "Explain the effects."

House felt tired now. He wanted to walk out the door and keep going until he left the building entirely. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to talk about the Vicodin.

"I'm _here_, aren't I?" He responded dully.

"So do you believe the Vicodin is partly to blame for your hallucinations?" she asked.

He didn't even have to pause to think about that question.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He should have known that would be the follow-up inquisition.

"You never _did_ detox, did you?" Amber said with a chortle. "You made that _all_ up on your own."

_Just another crazy delusion._

"It was the only idea I never got an answer to. I…I tried. I _thought_ I detoxed, but it never happened."

_That's not it though._

"You know Vicodin isn't the only reason why I'm here," Amber stated.

_No. No it's not._

"Why do you think you didn't allow yourself to detox?" Gina inquired without looking up, still scribbling on her clipboard.

_Pain. I couldn't handle the pain._

Everything led back to trying to escape pain. House hated being in pain above all else. Because even though he could understand it, he couldn't control it.

And so many aspects of his life had been robbed when the infarction had occurred. Things previously enjoyed no longer possible and people in his life once there now gone.

Pain changed everything.

_**Unending, infinite figure eight.**_

_**Trapped on a predictably curving path.**_

_**Intersecting at the same inconvenient times and places.**_

_**Robbing me of every last good thing.**_

_**Tendons stretching, my own fingers probing.**_

_**Desperate to extinguish this searing heat beneath my skin.**_

_**Left only with hollow bones and blood stained feathers.**_

_**Forever grounded; incapable of flight.**_

Forever limping. Forever slowed down. Forever in pain.

"Greg?"

House blinked and focused back on his therapist.

"Well, I don't know. Because I like to detox?" The sarcasm in his voice was heavy.

"Evidently you did two months ago," Amber said with scorn. "Oh wait, that wasn't _real_."

House groaned softly in aggravation. The endless commentary was getting to be repetitive.

Gina leaned forward, a look of displeasure on her face.

"You don't trust me; that's fine. Our time is up anyway so we can continue this conversation during another session," she stated firmly. "Keep up with your writing and I'll see you in a few days."

"See ya," House uttered quickly. Gina's eyes tracked him, as he quickly made his way to the door.

_Oh blessed freedom._

Walking down the hall with an orderly beside him, Gina's words ran through his head; _you don't trust me_.

House snorted under his breath. Trust her completely?

_Yeah right._

Trust her a little?

_Maybe._

He'd never been good with trust though. Trust made a person weak, made them vulnerable to being hurt. And House hated being weak and hated being hurt.

_One step at a time._

**

The next few days passed by agonizingly slow. House stayed in his room and tried to write, coming out only to retrieve his pills and to eat. Amber and Kutner flitted about here and there. But neither of them stayed for extended periods.

He was tired of them though, and could care less.

Since his therapy sessions were only a couple times a week, House was blessed with not having to worry about seeing Gina again until the weekend.

This meant there was not much to do except wait for time to pass.

He was utterly bored out of his mind.

And House refused to think that he was counting down the days until Wilson came to visit him again.

_Nope. Not that pathetic._

"Actually, you are," Amber quipped.

_Go to hell. Literally._

He only got a loud scoff in response to that.

Wilson's note (which House had retrieved from the floor after Cuddy left) had said he'd be back on the 27th.

_House,_

I've thought about what you said. We need to talk some more. I'm coming back on the 27th. Don't try to avoid me.

Wilson

That was today.

_Oh fuck._

Had it really been another week of residing in this damn place?

"Days blending together?" Amber asked slyly.

"I wish you and Kutner could blend together," House snapped. "And by _blend together_ I mean having you disappear entirely."

Was she ever going to leave?

"Oh, you know you like having me around."

House sighed. This whole Amber and Kutner thing was starting to become redundant.

A continuous loop of annoyance.

House didn't even realize how much time had gone by with him sulking away in his room that day until an orderly knocked on the door before entering.

"You have a visitor."

House had a sudden insane urge to hide.

_Don't try to avoid me._

Easier said than done.

House knew he could refuse, tell the orderly he didn't want to see anyone and then Wilson would be sent away. This wasn't like being back at his apartment or at the hospital, where Wilson could just barge in and ignore House's protests.

It was oh so tempting.

"You know you want to see him," Kutner said. He was now visible across the room, standing next to the orderly.

_Yes._

"Okay," House mumbled. "I'm going."

The orderly handed him his cane and House had a vision of himself smacking the man in the back of the head with it before making a break for it down the hall.

Ah that would be amazing. Just like an epic movie.

_Escape from Mayfield._

House contained his impulsive urge to giggle.

At least he wouldn't have to cross the San Francisco Bay or jump off a cliff. Too bad he wouldn't get very far though, especially with the prison-like security at the hospital.

Well, that took all the fun out of the scenario.

"Have to be sneakier," Amber whispered.

House closed his eyes briefly.

No, he was here for a reason. That meant no trying to get out early.

No matter how desperate he was to scratch that itch.

When they reached the door to the common room, the orderly held out his hand and took House's cane back from him.

So much for hoping he'd forget _this_ time.

Still grumbling to himself, House limped carefully into the room, spying Wilson easily. The other man had his back to the door and was staring out one of the large windows, hands stuffed into his pockets and rocking slightly on his heels.

And maybe he didn't want to run away.

House really _did_ want to see Wilson.

He'd never admit it, but he'd missed the other man. A lot.

_Ugh, I'm a sap._

All that wonderful therapy was changing him, though Amber kept trying to make him think it wasn't. He now found himself acknowledging thoughts and emotions he never would have previously. And even if he _had_, there was always some mocking comment to go along with it.

Therapy was making him think though, and he had yet to figure out if that fact was better or worse than how he handled himself in the past.

House plopped himself down in a chair and looked up at his still-standing friend.

"Hey, House," Wilson said with a faint smile.

Just from the way Wilson was wringing his hands, House knew that he was nervous.

_Go figure._ They hadn't parted on the best of terms last time.

And now…now felt like the calm before the storm.

House forced himself to ignore that feeling.

"Hey, Jimmy. How's it going?" He tried to go for overly chipper. Yet it fell flat somehow.

House had to force himself not to wince.

_Great._

Wilson frowned and shuffled his feet a bit before taking a seat at the table across from him, just like Cuddy had the previous week.

House definitely preferred Wilson right now though, despite their problems and odd, unstable friendship.

_What did that mean?_

It was a question House wasn't too keen to explore at the moment.

"Uh…good. Good," Wilson answered, fidgeting. "Got my note?"

"Yes. I drew little hearts all over it and then put it in my very special diary," House replied sarcastically.

Wilson rolled his eyes and grinned a little.

"Nice to know you're putting it to good use," he quipped back. "I can see you were going to try and avoid me anyway though."

"Hey! I'm here, aren't I?" House protested, drumming his fingers on the table.

"After an orderly practically had to drag you out of your room," Wilson pointed, tapping his hand against his mouth and trying to hide his grin.

"Only a little bit of dragging involved," House said. "I was…not sure how this would go."

The smile dropped off of Wilson's face and he bit his lip.

"Me too. But I wanted to see you again after…last time."

House tried not to show how much that comment pleased him.

"I'm…glad," he finally responded.

An awkward silence fell over them and House began to feel anxious, wanting to leave.

That was surprising.

_Well, I guess we're all cleared up now. Thanks for playing._

"No," Kutner said sharply, from somewhere off to his left

House jumped slightly in his chair, and desperately hoped Wilson hadn't noticed that.

Since Amber and Kutner were no longer hanging around him every second, the times they did make themselves known were that much more unexpected.

And Kutner had been unusually persistent lately. Cranky too.

"Don't do that again, House," he continued. "There's more to talk about. You know it; Wilson knows it."

Damn bothersome subconscious.

An ache started radiating through his thigh.

"So I guess we need to talk…" House trailed off, trying to ignore the pain and hoping Wilson would pick up on the conversation. He had been the one to mention that in the note after all.

Wilson relaxed back in his seat a little.

"Right. Um…I shouldn't have left like that…before. It was wrong of me and I should have just stayed and tried _talking _with you. But I was angry and you were…"

Wilson flailed with his hands for a second, obviously at a loss for words.

_I better help with that._

"Telling you the truth," House said bluntly.

Wilson sat up straighter and looked at him in confusion.

"House, you can't possibly think…?"

House rolled his eyes in exasperation.

_Here we go again._

"What? Did you think what I was saying was just the incoherent ramblings of an old man who has finally gone off his rocker? Really, Wilson. I've never been thinking more clearly than I am now."

"But…you said…"

"That it's partly your fault. Yes, I remember that."

House felt like he was talking to a child suddenly. It was a bit disconcerting how oblivious Wilson was acting.

Wilson was looking progressively frustrated and edgy. He was leaning forward intently in his chair while restlessly tapping his feet against the carpet. He had the distinctive air of a man who was anxiously trying to curb the urge to _move_.

"I don't think I understand."

"He doesn't see it," Kutner whispered.

When had everything become so wrong?

House let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Do you honestly think you aren't culpable in _any_ of this? God, Wilson. How dense _are _you?"

Wilson's eyes flashed in anger at the comment.

"You're blaming _me_ for you being here? Yes, I remember you saying that, and I can't wait for the explanation."

"Who said I was going to start explaining? If you don't _know_ then this is pointless. I may have to work on my issues, but you have to meet me halfway."

"That's what I don't get," Wilson countered. "Why is your being here _my_ fault? I'll meet you halfway, House. But you have to clue me in, too. I came here to try and fix things and because I hated how I left last time, turning my back again just like…in my office. I want…I want to understand you."

"Why _did_ you leave?" House muttered. "You had to know I'd recognize that for what it was."

Wilson sighed and rubbed one of his hands across his forehead.

"I was angry, _hurt_ that you would say something like that to me. I'm your friend and I never thought you…I just never imagined you thought like that about me. I know being here is hard for you, and I know you're scrambling to find answers. But…" He trailed off.

_I'm your friend. Why doesn't it feel that way?_

"But what? You thought I was just going after you because you're a convenient target?"

Wilson averted his eyes guiltily.

House laughed bitterly. "Oh, that's good. You would think something like that."

"I don't know _what_ to think, House!" Wilson practically shouted at him before slumping back in his seat.

House increasing impatience caused him to stand up and lean against the wall behind the table. He flicked his eyes around the room, noticing a few patients and orderlies looking their way. They must find his visitors extremely entertaining by now.

Wilson tracked his movements and then relaxed visibly when he realized House wasn't leaving the room. He started to open his mouth to continue the conversation before snapping it shut and blowing out a loud breath. His shoulders slumped forward and the look on his face could only be described as _lost_.

"I'm…" He laughed shortly. "I'm not good at this."

His hand started rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that was so _Wilson_ it almost made House smile and caused this horrible ache in his chest.

He grabbed his leg reflexively, wrongly thinking the pain was there. Because House couldn't associate the twinge he felt as anything other than relating to his leg. It was an automatic response; borne over years of feeling pain only _there_.The Methadone was a pain _blocker_ though and this reaction was…irrational.

So why was he responding that way now?

"The answer to that is right in front of you," Kutner told him.

It all led back to Wilson apparently.

"Is your leg bothering you?" Wilson asked anxiously, eyeing him and half-rising out of his seat.

"No," House snapped back. "I feel just dandy. Continue."

He couldn't associate the pain as anything else but physical. Because emotional pain made little sense to him.**  
**

"I'm sorry," Wilson finally whispered. And House knew it wasn't about his leg.

_Just a word. Just a word._

Oddly, the pain lessened at that point and he released his vice-like grip on his thigh.

_Hmm._

Because it was the word that meant something. Even though any phrase involving _sorry_ was not usually his thing. At that moment though, House wanted to hear it.

"I know," he answered just as softly. "That doesn't take anything back though."

Wilson threw his hands up into the air and glared at House.

"What do you want then, House?" he snapped loudly. "I apologize and yet you're _still _not letting anything go. _What do you want from me_?"

_My apologies never mean anything to you, so why should yours, Wilson?_

"Yes, because you _obviously_ let everything go, too," House responded with a roll of his eyes. "_Mister Let-Me-Talk-A-Situation-To-Death_."

Wilson crossed his arms and looked away silently.

_You know I'm right._

"Tell me what you want, House." Wilson sounded overwhelmed.

"I want…" House trailed off, glancing over at Kutner who was nodding encouragingly.

What _did_ he want?

"I want…to matter. I want…you to care." House shut his eyes tightly. "I want us to go back to the way we were before."

"House. Oh God," Wilson said, his voice muffled.

House opened his eyes to see Wilson sitting before him with his face buried in his hands. House stiffened, shifting his weight uneasily. He then slowly lowered himself back into his seat, mind racing to formulate a reply.

"Wils…"

"_Why_ do you keep doing this?" Wilson cut him off, still not looking up. "Why must you keep bringing all this up? Have I not proved, time and time again, that I _do_ care? _I. Care_, House_."_

In an act reminiscent of his previous visit, Wilson leapt up from his chair and started to pace back and forth. House was getting dizzy just watching him.

"I don't think you…"

Again Wilson cut him off, abruptly halting his pacing and waving his hands around in agitation. His eyes bored furiously into House's and there was more anger in his voice as he kept talking.

"You called me, on the fucking phone, and told me you were about to inject yourself with insulin! God, House, I haven't run that fast in years. Do you have any idea what that did to me? Don't you think that _proved_ I care? How many other times have I proven myself?"

"So this is all about keeping score?" House barked. "Let's count up the tally marks."

"What? No!" Wilson said indignantly, starting up his pacing again. "There is no score, House. But you claim I don't care about you and only use you when it suits me, and that's not true." He paused and looked away while running his fingers through his hair. "And I could say the same about you."

_Round and round in circles we go._

"I've heard this before," House muttered.

"Stop!" Wilson snapped, rapidly losing his temper.

Wilson's hands were resting on his hips and a very fine tremor was vibrating through his body. House only noticed because he knew Wilson so well.

"Okay, you're right, this isn't about scores," House admitted. "But it _is_ about the way you treat me."

"I…"

"Shut _up_. For one minute, shut up," he snarled.

Wilson froze in place at the tone of House's voice before dropping back down into his chair. His hands were still trembling and House watched as Wilson clenched them into fists and held them stiffly against the top of his thighs. His shoulders were hunched and he eyed House warily, exuding an aura of fight or flight.

But he stayed quiet this time.

House's head was throbbing and another ache was growing in his leg.

_Listen, Wilson. Please just listen to me._

"You knew this wasn't going to be easy," Kutner said.

Nothing in his life ever had been.

"This isn't just about a couple of issues, Wilson," House spoke harshly. "This is about everything. But you've never been able to see that. Your friendship is conditional on every single thing I do. If I'm behaving, you stay. If I fuck up, you leave. If I do what _you_ want or think is best, you're my friend. If I do something for myself, I'm suddenly selfish and you hate me."

House took a deep breath, trying to pretend he wasn't seeing Wilson's stoic expression. His fingers started playing along the edge of the table, searching for a distraction.

_He hates me. He hates me._

_You've hurt me. I hurt you. I'm in pain. You're in pain._

"Explain that." Kutner was speaking into his ear.

_On and on and on._

"I take pills because I'm in pain. But to you I'm nothing except an addict, craving his next fix. My leg hurts more on certain days, but to you that's because I must be suffering from some emotional conversion disorder. The funny part is you bitch, yet you _need_ me to be in pain because then I need _you_ more. You don't understand that I need you in spite of everything else."

_Should I have admitted that?_

"You…you always want to repair me, always want to put me in order like I'm a broken toy or something," House continued on in a whisper. "This is me though. Why can't you accept that? Why can't you see _me_ instead of what you want to see?"

House wasn't looking at Wilson, not wanting to see the reaction to what he was saying. His fingertips still brushed along the tabletop and he kept his gaze focused there.

"Why can't you just be a friend, without making me feel like crap all the time? Why can't you be the friend I need?"

_Ball's in your court. Now you can say something._

"House, you've…got this all wrong. I don't…no."

House glanced over at him finally and saw that both of Wilson's hands were gripping the back of his neck and he was rocking subtly. The blank look on his face was now being replaced by loss. House had to keep pushing though; he couldn't help himself.

That was why he was there; that was why he had come to Mayfield. He wasn't there only for the hallucinations; he was also there to face his issues with the people in his life.

And Wilson was at the very top of the list.

"That has never changed," Kutner reminded him softly.

_No, it hasn't._

"I've _alway_s considered you my friend, Wilson. Always," said House. "No matter what you do or say or how you treat me, I've never stopped being your friend and I never will stop."

House closed his eyes and turned his head away. He couldn't bear to see that pained look on Wilson's face anymore.

"I want you…to feel the same way about me. I want you to…value our friendship as much as I do."

"Oh House, how can you not know?" Wilson sounded like he was close to crying again.

House wasn't sure which was worse; the almost crying or the raging anger.

"How can you even think like that?" Wilson continued.

_Because it's true._

"You make me feel like a burden to you; you've always done that. I can count on one, maybe two hands the number of times you've actually seemed to appreciate me, to _like_ me."

"Oh ho," Wilson broke in suddenly, standing once more and pointing a shaking finger at House. "Like you don't? You put this all on _me_ yet you treat me the same way. How many times have you ignored me? How many times have I actually needed you as a friend yet you couldn't be _bothered_ to be there for me? How many, House?"

"Do you want an actual number or just an estimate?" House asked, lifting his hand and starting to count off with his fingers.

Wrong thing to say.

"House, dammit!" Wilson growled and slammed his hand down on the table. He kept it there, leaning on the table and tipping it a little his way.

"Watch it," Kutner warned.

Interesting how Kutner was trying to keep _him_ in check when Wilson was the one losing his temper.

"This isn't why I came back. I didn't want to fight again," Wilson said with a lot of the bite from before now gone from his voice. With the hand not placed on the table, he reached up and started kneading his forehead. As if staving off a headache.

They were a little beyond that point now though.

"Why must you question _everything_?" There was now only exasperation in Wilson's tone.

_I have to question this; I have to do this._

"I may act like an asshole and I may not be the world's greatest friend. But you make me _earn_ your friendship, every damn day," House snapped. "You make me feel as if I'm a charity case; that you only put up with me because you _should_."

"That's not true!" Wilson practically shouted in a strangled voice, his hand hitting the table again.

"Are we friends, Wilson? Are we? Answer me that. Tell me we're friends because you _want_ us to be friends, not because you feel as if it's some duty that makes you look like the saintly martyr."

"House…" Wilson said, shaking his head frantically from side to side and placing his hands on his hips. "Don't do this. Don't ruin another visit."

"I need to know. I need to do this. Don't come back, until you can look me in the eye and tell me the truth, not some bullshit lies that you love to spew. I can't go on like that anymore."

House stood up and started to limp away. But the helpless look on Wilson's face combined with his renewed trembling made House pause next to him. Peripherally he saw Wilson raise his hand as if to set it on House's shoulder before aborting the move and clenching the hand back at his side.

"House."

Gnawing worriedly on his bottom lip, Wilson started to step closer to him. But House immediately took a step back in response and Wilson bowed his head in defeat.

Heartbreak. Ache in his chest. Itching behind his eyes. Pain in his leg making him stumble.

The Methadone felt suddenly useless.

_Why am I doing this? _

_Leave. Leave now, before I take it all back_.

"I'm…" House broke off, shifting in place as well as he could with one bad leg.

_I can't say sorry._

"Bye, Wilson."

_Please please understand._

As House limped out of the room, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Wilson still standing with his head down with the addition of his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. A whole aura of misery surrounded him.

_Words can hurt. Get used to it._

House had to ignore any emotions the scene produced though. He had to force himself to turn away and keep walking. Because feeling guilty for his actions wouldn't facilitate the situation. And he couldn't feel sorry for Wilson after all the pain he'd caused House. He just couldn't allow himself that.

_How many times have I felt the way you feel right now, Wilson?_

_**Lost at sea.**_

_**Once more in need of your assistance.**_

_**The tide is quickly rising.**_

_**Throw me a line and draw me in.**_

_**Please forgive me.**_

_**For we both already know.**_

_**Tomorrow I will do it again.**_

And this is the moment when he hated himself.

* * *

_End part four._


End file.
